


Where's the Freedom in the Disco

by LayALioness



Series: I Hope This Song Will Guide You Home [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t remember me,” she decides, and huffs a small laugh, with no humor. “It’s Clarke. Clarke Griffin. From Ark K-6?”</p><p>“Holy shit,” Bellamy breathes, because holy shit. The last time he saw Clarke Griffin, she was nine and he was twelve, and she was worried they weren’t going to be best friends anymore because he was moving onto middle school and leaving her behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where's the Freedom in the Disco

**Author's Note:**

> Carby by Discovery feat. Ezra Koenig
> 
> ok so my new goal is to post something every two days, whether it's a prompt, or a wip I'm already working on. BUT don't hold me to that, because I'm currently working 10 hour days building a house, which is as tiring as it sounds.

Bellamy isn’t really awake when someone rings his doorbell just after midnight on a Wednesday, which is why he decides it’s a good idea to open his door in nothing but pajama pants, holding an umbrella just in case it’s a burglar.

A burglar who rings doorbells, apparently. Again; not really awake.

What he doesn’t expect to find is a small blonde girl, looking sort of homeless, shivering on the stairs with a suitcase.

“Bellamy?” she asks, and he squints at her. There’s something vaguely familiar about her face, and her hair—all wild and curly—but he can’t really place it.

“Yeah?” he manages around a yawn. He’s still holding the umbrella, though he’s not sure why. Everything feels very dreamlike and not real.

“You don’t remember me,” she decides, and huffs a small laugh, with no humor. “It’s Clarke. Clarke Griffin. From Ark K-6?”

“Holy shit,” Bellamy breathes, because _holy shit_. The last time he saw Clarke Griffin, she was nine and he was twelve, and she was worried they weren’t going to be best friends anymore because he was moving onto middle school and leaving her behind.

In the end, she was right, but she was the one to leave. Her dad came up with some sort of new eco-friendly car fuel, and struck it rich, so their family packed up and moved to wherever it is rich people move to. Los Angeles, or something. Maybe New York. Someplace with a lot of celebrities.

She found him on Facebook when he was a junior in high school, and they exchanged small talk for all of four days before the conversation tapered off, and that was it. Bellamy hasn’t even _thought_ of her in eight years.

Bellamy’s still staring like an idiot, when he finally remembers she’s _shivering_ , so he steps back to let her inside. She’s got a backpack along with the suitcase, and another satchel draped over one shoulder, that looks like it’s made out of scarves all knotted together.

She looks like she’s on her way to a three-month vacation, not stopping by for a visit in the middle of the night.

“What are you doing here?” he frowns. She’s still shivering, just a little, and he sees a flash of hurt cross her face before she can shutter it off. “Not that I want you to leave,” he adds hastily, because if Clarke’s anything like he remembers, he doesn’t want her going away again anytime soon. He _cried_ , the first time, and Bellamy doesn’t cry, on principle. “Just—what are you doing here, at twelve-forty-three in the morning?”

Clarke blanches a little, clearly embarrassed. It’s exactly the kind of face she’d make when they were kids, which makes him grin. “I kind of ran away,” she admits.

Bellamy eyes her, amused. She’s three years younger than him, which puts her at twenty-two. That’s a little old to be sneaking out windows. “From what?”

“Everything,” Clarke sighs. She’s still standing, awkward, in the middle of his living room. She fidgets with the straps of her bag. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she apologizes. “I can go—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Bellamy shrugs, waving her towards the couch. He takes her suitcase, and lifts the satchel off her shoulder and then she sinks down into the cushions without a word. “Stay. I won’t even make you sleep in the closet.”

When they were kids, he and Clarke would sometimes hide in the closet under the stairs. They filled it with his mom’s throw pillows and a bunch of old quilts, and they’d read passages of _Harry Potter_ out loud to each other, and practice making up spells. It’s sort of what got him into Latin, to be honest. Sometimes they’d fall asleep on top of each other, and their moms would search the house for them, irritated and relieved when they eventually stumbled back out.

Clarke smiles, a little pink. “You do remember,” she says, pleased.

Bellamy shrugs. “You’re hard to forget. So, couch, or guest bed?”

“Couch,” Clarke decides, firm. She’d always been so serious when they were kids. Bossy, too. A perpetual tiny adult.

“Cool,” Bellamy nods, tossing her a throw blanket from the recliner. It’s pretty old and threadbare, but it’s covered in purple cats, which he knows she’ll appreciate. “Get some rest, princess.”

He freezes for a minute and so does she. The pet name just slipped out, easy and comfortable like when they were kids. Bellamy’s waiting for her reaction, and when the smile spreads slow and wide across her face, he lets himself relax.

“I’ll uh, leave your bags over here,” he offers, tucking them against the wall, just a few feet away. Clarke watches, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, clearly amused. She’s still wearing her knit hat, pale pink with a glittery white pompom that bobs when she moves her head.

It’s a little unfair how desperately he wants to take care of her, right now. But, it’s _Clarke_ ; the girl that used to carry around Barbie bandaids because Octavia _always_ ended up scraping her knees by the end of the day. The girl that would spend hours helping him make Mother’s Day cards out of construction paper and cheap doilies, because he was fucking _clueless_ with arts and crafts, but couldn’t afford anything better. The girl that decided to be friends with him because nobody else wanted to, and for a six year old, she had a very deep sense of justice.

And now she’s curled up on his couch, looking soft and small and cute, and he just sort of wants to tuck her in and make her breakfast in the morning.

“So, just curious,” she teases. “How often do you just let old childhood friends crash on your couch in the middle of the night?”

“You’re my first,” Bellamy shrugs, and then turns bright red. Clarke’s staring wide eyed, a little pink. He clears his throat—he still has the umbrella in his hand, so he waves it awkwardly. “If it keeps happening, I should probably start charging by the hour.”

“Probably,” Clarke agrees. “Were you expecting rain?” She nods to the umbrella, and Bellamy leans it up against the wall.

“I didn’t know who was at the door,” he explains, and Clarke laughs, bright and open. It probably shouldn’t be this easy, settling back into their old roles, but things were always easy with them.

“What were you planning to _do_?” she asks, still giggling, and Bellamy can’t help but grin.

“Shut up,” he says without any real heat. “It’s sort of like a sword. A little bit.”

“It definitely isn’t,” Clarke says, mild. “Goodnight, Bellamy.”

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s surprisingly lucid. He’s still pretty sure the whole Clarke Griffin thing was some weirdly lifelike dream, though.

Until he stumbles down the hall and hears the shower running. The bathroom door is shut, with steam leaking out under the door, and he can _smell_ her flowery shampoo, which. It’s a little distracting, and it definitely makes him feel like a creep, so he hurries off to the kitchen to start the coffee maker.

Octavia got him the coffee maker, for Christmas. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he prefers the fifteen dollar camping French Press from Walmart. But he figures, Clarke’s rich; she’s probably used to fancy espresso machines, or k-cups or something. The least he can do is make her some crappy Folgers.

He’s working on fried egg sandwiches—because he doesn’t remember if she liked pancakes, and also because he was still thinking about her in the shower, which needs to just _stop_ —when Clarke finally appears. She’s still toweling her hair, dripping water across the floor without realizing it, and wearing a pair of men’s basketball shorts and a tank top. Her skin is still flushed from the hot water, which he’s trying very hard not to notice.

He’s trying not to notice her in general, to be honest. When she showed up last night she was in jeans and an enormous winter jacket, and now there is a lot of smooth skin, and _cleavage_ , which is deeply unfair.

But Clarke just beams over at him, fitting herself in against his side like she belongs there, and stares down at the eggs. “I was sort of expecting pancakes,” she admits, bumping his shoulder so he knows she’s just kidding.

This close, he suddenly realizes she must have used his body wash. He buys the generic kind, because it’s cheaper, and it has a distinctive cinnamon smell.

She _smells_ like him, and like flowers and summer, and she’s warm and soft and _her,_ and it’s all too much for him to handle.

Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you work today?”

“What?” Bellamy chokes out, and she eyes him a little warily. He clears his throat and tries again. He’s not a twelve year old with a crush he doesn’t even know what to do with. He’s an adult, now. He has a job, and an apartment, and actual _friends_. He is fucking together. “Why?”

“I’m assuming that since you are an average adult out of school, you have things to do with your time,” Clarke says wryly. “Besides catering to me, of course.”

“Of course,” Bellamy nods, shutting off the stove and reaching for a spatula. “I do, um. Have to work. Did you have a second stage to this whole running away plan?”

Clarke sighs, following him to the table. “Honestly, I barely even had a first stage. I figured I’d just find somewhere safe to lay low for a while, and get my life together.”

Bellamy nudges her plate closer pointedly, and she snorts, but takes a bite. He’s deliberately ignoring the part where he’s her _somewhere safe_ , because if he tries to acknowledge that, he’ll probably explode. “We’ll figure it out,” he shrugs, and Clarke ducks with a grin.

She’s making fun of his biography collection—“You have _three_ books on Augustus I, Bellamy. Who needs that much knowledge about one person?”—when Octavia calls.

“What’s up, O?” Bellamy asks, careful. He watches Clarke brighten up a little—she’d always gotten along with his sister. He tries to ignore that, too.

“Is there a girl at your apartment?” she demands, and Bellamy chokes on absolutely nothing.

“ _What?_ ”

“Raven said there’s a girl at your apartment,” she explains breezily. “ _And_ that she showed up at midnight.”

“Your guys’ obsession with my love life is actively creepy,” he says, mild.

“That’s not a no.”

Bellamy meets Clarke’s curious gaze, and fights the urge to make something up. Odds are, O won’t even believe him, anyway. “Clarke’s visiting,” he says, completely nonchalant. Octavia gasps anyway.

“ _Clarke_?” she asks, and he rolls his eyes. Like there’s more than one Clarke he could be talking about. “Is she okay?”

Bellamy frowns. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

He can hear Octavia hesitate, and he’s watching Clarke do her best to not eavesdrop. “Her dad died,” O admits. “A couple months ago.”

“She’s okay,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not true. People don’t run away from everything when they’re _okay_. But she also hasn’t told him, herself, yet, and he wants to wait until she’s ready to talk about it. “I gotta go.”

“I’m coming over,” Octavia declares. “You’re too inept to be trusted with human emotions.” Then she hangs up.

“She told you?” Clarke asks, though it’s clear she knows the answer. Bellamy nods, pocketing his phone. “Good. I don’t—I’m not really sure how to _say_ it, yet. You know?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. He knows.

Clarke’s leaning against the counter, now, mug of coffee in her hands. She’d bypassed the coffee maker completely, pouring some from the French Press instead. He’d offered cream and sugar, the way Octavia likes, or just honey, the way he likes, but Clarke claimed to like it black, which. He’s not saying she’s _wrong_ , but. Does anyone _really_ like black coffee?

“I was in med school when it happened. Senior year. Three weeks left to graduate, and I had to find out he was in a car accident from some guy I met at a fund raiser. Apparently his dad knew my mom, or something—I don’t know. I got on the next bus home, but he died in intensive care while I was on the road. My mom didn’t even call me.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy says, leaning back beside her. She nods, sagging against him. “That’s such a shitty thing to do.”

“She said she didn’t want to worry me until something was _definite_ ,” Clarke explains, sounding tired. He doesn’t really mean to wrap his arm around her, but there it is anyway.

“It’s still shitty.”

Clarke ducks her head against his side, and he probably should _not_ smell her hair right now. “Yeah,” she agrees.

Apparently a weird half-hug was all Clarke really needed, because she straightens up with a weak smile. “You’re surprisingly comforting,” she decides. “I don’t remember you being this cuddly.”

“Right,” Bellamy snorts. “You definitely came here, expecting me to be a dick.”

“You did almost hit me in the face with an umbrella.”

“You almost assault somebody _one time_ ,” he sighs, and she laughs.

“Clarke Griffin!” Octavia announces, letting the door fall shut with a slam. She looks angry, but Bellamy knows that’s just her default expression.

Clarke, apparently, does not. She probably remembers O as the little girl that wore poodle skirts every day and climbed trees to try to adopt the baby birds, and fell over her own feet a lot.

“Octavia?” Clarke asks, putting a little more space between her and Bellamy. He pretends not to notice.

“Obviously,” O scoffs, and slams a piece of paper down on the counter between them. They all stare at it for a moment—it’s old, and fraying around the edges; it’s a group of technicolor butterflies, drawn in paint. There are smudges where the artist’s fingertip pressed too hard and left a thumbprint.

Clarke reaches out to hold it up a little. “You kept it?” she asks, and to Bellamy’s horror, her eyes are shiny with tears.

“Of course,” Octavia shrugs, and Bellamy shoots her a glare. Clarke Griffin is a second away from crying in his kitchen, and he honestly doesn’t know what he’d do if she does.

“O keeps literally _everything_ ,” he says. “She’s a class-A hoarder.”

“I do _not_ ,” Octavia rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Just the important stuff.”

Clarke doesn’t set the picture down before throwing an arm around Octavia, in a strained sort of hug across the counter. When she pulls back, she’s smiling again. “I should go get dressed,” she offers, padding down the hall.

Once she’s out of earshot, Octavia turns her glare onto Bellamy. “You’re not allowed to sleep with Clarke,” she tells him, and he snorts.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he says dryly. “It’s not like she’s _my_ friend, or anything.”

Octavia scoffs. “You forget, I read your sixth grade diary. I know what you wrote about her, _Mr. Bellamy Griffin_.”

“It wasn’t a diary,” Bellamy argues, mostly as a reflex. He doesn’t bother denying the other part, and Octavia waggles her eyebrows.

So what, he used to have a crush on Clarke Griffin? They were kids, and she was cute, and nice to him, and basically his only friend for several years. Of course he had a crush on her, it was inevitable.

“Tell that to Lisa Frank,” Octavia shoots, swiping a banana from the fruit bowl, and peeling it with her teeth.

Clarke comes back out, wearing plain jeans and a Henley, and somehow looking even better than she did before. Her hair is dry now, soft yellow curls pulled up off her face. She still smells like cinnamon and sunshine.

“I have a shift at the diner,” Bellamy says, sounding unsure even to himself. He’s weighing the pros and cons of just calling in sick, to spend the day with Clarke. Pros include spending the day with Clarke. Cons mostly have to do with money.

“Awesome,” Octavia says, turning to Clarke. “You’re hanging out with me and Raven. We’ll show you the sights.”

Bellamy snorts. They live in Corning, upstate New York, and it’s mid-March, which is still pretty much winter. There’s less than two hundred thousand people in their city, and not very much to do. There’s a community college, and the glass museum, but that’s about it.

Clarke seems excited about it, though, which is something he can get behind. She has to use the bathroom before they head out, and Bellamy takes that moment to have a weird Alpha showdown with Octavia, which ends with her promising to keep him updated and return Clarke in one piece, and with Bellamy promising to not text them every fifteen minutes, fretting.

The diner where Bellamy works, called Reminisce, is a mock-up of a fifties soda shop. He works mostly behind the milkshake bar, which means most of his customers are little kids or teenagers on their first date. It’s a pretty cool place, and he likes his coworkers well enough, and the tips are nice, but he spends most of his shift wondering after Clarke, and discretely checking his texts under the counter. She keeps sending him pictures of things at weird angles, like the stem of a dead leaf, or the corner of someone’s shoe. He thinks it might be code for something, but he has no idea what. To retaliate, he starts sending her photos of all the best-looking shakes with cherries on top.

He finishes up at the diner around dinner time, and doesn’t have to go to the bar until eight, so he swings back by the apartment to meet up with the girls.

They’re already there, of course, because Octavia has a key for emergencies, and also doesn’t understand boundaries _at all_. When he walks in, she and Raven are sitting at the table playing some weird variation of Checkers, while Clarke flips pancakes at the stove.

“Breakfast again?” Bellamy asks, teasing, and Clarke throws a blueberry at his eye.

“Most important meal of the day,” she shoots. “Now sit down, and let me concentrate.”

It turns out Clarke’s pretty good at pancake art, apparently. Raven gets a storm trooper’s helmet, while Octavia gets a butterfly, and Bellamy gets a tree.

“Why am I a tree?” he asks, curious. It’s a fucking good tree, with tons of detail. He’s pretty sure it’s a Douglas Fir.

Clarke shrugs. “I like doing trees.” Bellamy steals her pancake before she can bite into it, and makes a crown for it out of blueberries.

Around seven-thirty, he gets ready to leave for his second job.

“How many jobs do you have?” Clarke asks. Since she cooked, Raven and Octavia are washing the dishes while she perches on the counter and supervises.

“Just the two,” Bellamy shrugs. “Rent’s expensive.”

“Plus, he likes the tips,” Octavia adds. “He’s basically a prostitute, but legal.”

“Thanks, O,” Bellamy deadpans. He tugs on Clarke’s hair. “I’ll see you later.”

Grounders is one of several bars on Main Street, and as such, it mostly banks on its theme nights, to reel in customers. Thursdays are Ladies’ Night, and specifically the third Thursdays of the month are Disco Night, which is why when Clarke finds him, Bellamy is dancing in a cage, wearing a fucking _Saturday Night Fever_ suit.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, feeling a little hysterical. Clarke is looking him up and down, a little appraising, but mostly just intrigued. Raven and Octavia stand smug on either side of her, like a pair of asshole bookends.

“Showing Clarke the sights,” Octavia says primly, and Raven cackles.

“Plus, I heard it’s Ladies’ Night,” Clarke adds, “And I’m planning to hit on a _lot_ of girls.”

It’s enough of a surprise to make him choke a little, and then he tries to cover it up with a cough, completely unsuccessfully. Clarke’s grin turns feral. “So you’re, uh,” he flails a little, not sure how to ask without coming off as offensive.

Clarke, at least, seems to take pity on him. “Bi,” she shrugs. “I’m an equal opportunist.” Raven and Octavia have migrated towards the bar, either because they got bored or as some attempt at giving them privacy. Clarke glances back at them. “I should probably let you get back to…whatever you were doing,” she teases, and he pulls a face.

“I’ll have you know I get the best tips on Disco Night,” he says, which is true, but isn’t that much of an accomplishment. Really, only he and Roma get _any_ tips on Disco Night, because they’re the only ones that dance. Lincoln is too surly for most people, and there isn’t a huge queer population in Corning, so that really just leaves Bellamy.

“Yeah, but that’s just because of that,” Clarke argues, waving vaguely towards his chest. Then she just turns around and leaves, while he stares after her.

Bellamy isn’t really a bad dancer—he’s not that talented, either, but he’s pretty good at swaying to the beat, and he can throw in a few John Travolta moves and then wink, and make quite a bit of cash. But once he sees Clarke, dressed completely inappropriately in a pastel summer dress more suited to Sunday brunch than some kitschy nightclub, Bellamy’s night is ruined. He can’t dance, or focus on any tipping customers, because he’s too busy watching Clarke make her way through the crowd.

He also makes sure to flip his sister off every chance he gets. She’s currently over at the bar, hitting on Lincoln. They know each other from the twenty-four-hour gym down the street, and sometimes work out together, and she’s trying to turn that into a relationship, somehow. Bellamy knows his sister has game, but he’s never seen Lincoln even crack a smile, so he’s not holding his breath.

Clarke finds him once his set is finished, and he’s back behind the bar. Roma slaps his ass whenever she passes by, but mostly in a joking way; she’s with Indra now, he knows, and happy with her. He makes a point of not going over to Clarke, because he doesn’t trust himself, instead taking care of a few desperate housewives that keep trying to touch his arms. He watches from the corner of his eye as Roma leans over to talk to Clarke, who says something before they both smirk in his general direction. Roma heads towards him while he sets out the last wife’s martini.

“Are you seriously avoiding the girl you have a crush on?” Roma teases, grabbing a glass to wipe down. “How old are you?”

“Why aren’t you working?” he asks, instead of answering her question. Roma holds up the cleaned glass pointedly.

“Where’s Lincoln?” he barks, glancing around. They’re too busy for just two bartenders, and Miller never works ladies’ nights.

Roma’s smirk somehow _widens_ , to his horror. “He took his break a while ago,” she shrugs, and then looks around blatantly. “Where’s Octavia?”

“No way,” Bellamy mutters, but he takes the bait and glances around the room. His sister _is_ missing, but she could be in the bathroom, or maybe decided to head home alone. “Why are you even working tonight?” he snaps.

“Lesbians,” Roma shrugs, because it’s obvious. “And bisexuals,” she says slyly, and his eyes slide to Clarke, because he’s a fucking disaster. Roma cackles as he walks away.

“Did you tell Roma I have a crush on you?” he asks, shoving Clarke a rum sour with a pink umbrella while he leans against the bar. He doesn’t really know her drink preferences, but rum sours tend to go over well.

“Did you tell her you don’t?” she asks, taking a sip. She seems pleasantly surprised, and he grins wryly.

“I do know how to make mixed drinks,” he says, amused. “I have this job for a reason.”

“I thought it was just because of your dance moves,” she shoots, and he laughs.

“That’s just an added benefit.” He fishes out a bottle of water and slides it over, and laughs when she makes a face. “I don’t want to have to carry you home,” he shrugs.

“Bellamy Blake, you would absolutely carry me home,” Clarke accuses, and he ducks so she won’t see him flush.

“Don’t bet on it,” he grumbles, heading over to check on another customer.

He ends up only half-carrying her home, painstakingly helping her up each step leading to his apartment door. “You’re such a lush,” he shakes his head in disappointment as she falls back onto the couch. Her skirt falls up on her thighs, so he can see the pink of her underwear.

“You’re such a _dad_ ,” Clarke whines, sticking a foot up in the air and nudging him in the hip with it. “Untie my shoes?” She frowns down at them. “My hands are stupid right now.”

He does, grumbling the whole time, and then fishes through her bag for some pajamas, stiffening each time he accidentally touches a bra or lacy underwear.

She has a _lot_ of lacy underwear, it seems. She definitely doesn’t need that much underwear.

He draws the line at actually _changing_ her clothes, instead tossing the shorts and t-shirt at her face before calling a quick _Goodnight!_ and slinking off to his bedroom like a coward. He doesn’t actively jerk off to thoughts of her, flushed and wanting in his bed, but he does wake up with a wet stain on his boxers, which doesn’t seem fair. He is _trying_ to not be a creep, but his body’s a traitor.

When he stumbles out of the bathroom, still groggy and annoyed with himself, he nearly runs into Clarke. She grunts at him, looking squinty and disheveled, and locks herself inside. He sets a bottle of blue Gatorade and some advil on the floor outside the bathroom, and pours himself some cereal because he’s not sure he can manage bacon.

Clarke’s still in the shower when Octavia shows up, looking devastating in her secretary get-up. His sister only seems to wear shoes that can double as prison shanks, and he’s pretty sure she does it on purpose.

“Did you sleep with my coworker?” he asks mildly. He doesn’t remember if Lincoln ever actually came back from break last night; everything’s mixed up in a haze of Clarke.

“No,” Octavia says, sounding equally disappointed and angry about it. “Are you gonna be a dick about it, if I do?”

Bellamy shrugs, taking a bite of oatmeal raisin. “Nah,” he says, swallowing. “Just give me a heads up, so I know how awkward to feel around him.”

“We made out a little in the alley,” she offers, making a face at his cereal, and pulling a breakfast bar out of literally nowhere.

“Weak,” he decides, and she glowers.

“Did you sleep with your childhood crush?” she shoots, and Bellamy flicks a spoonful of milk at her hair.

Clarke wanders in just as Octavia’s leaving, so they only have a few moments to compliment each other’s clothes in that way girls do, and then ridicule Bellamy’s ratty sweatpants a little. Clarke checks all the cupboards, scrunching up her nose at all the breakfast options.

“You eat like you’re in one of those good cholesterol ads,” she decides.

“Sorry my free food isn’t to your taste,” Bellamy grouses, and Clarke turns to give him a placating smile. She’s wearing an oversized Yale sweatshirt he recognizes as her dad’s, and a pair of paint-stained shorts. Her toes are painted dark purple, which he hadn’t noticed before.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she says softly. “I really do appreciate you letting me crash here, Bell.”

Bellamy shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. Of course she didn’t mean it as an insult; it’s Clarke. “You can stay as long as you want,” he says, but what he means is _please don’t ever leave_. It’s probably not a good idea to say that. “Or, at least till you get sick of me,” he adds, grinning.

“I’m already sick of you,” Clarke says seriously, but then ruins it by rolling her eyes. “But I’m going shopping, today. I can’t _believe_ you don’t have any Eggos. How are you alive, seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s a mystery,” he says dryly, but when she leaves to go get dressed for the day, he empties out a cupboard for her.

Bellamy’s on his lunch break at the diner, in the back playing Candy Crush, when his phone rings. Except it’s not his phone, because that’s in his hands, but the ringtone is coming from his jacket pocket, and he fishes it out.

It’s a white I-phone, in a rubber case with a galaxy print on it and a crowned cat in the center. The screen blinks with the picture of a pretty brunette he doesn’t recognize, and the contact name says COMMANDER, which is sort of weird. Before he can think too much about it, he swipes _accept_.

“This call is to confirm you aren’t dead in a ditch,” a woman’s voice says, and he can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. “Or otherwise incapacitated.”

“Uh,” Bellamy says, and there’s a pause.

“You are not Clarke,” the woman decides. “Did you find this phone in a dumpster? Was there a body wrapped in a shower curtain with it?”

“You seem pretty convinced that she’s dead,” Bellamy muses. “She’s not. She’s at my apartment, I think. Or maybe the grocery store. Who’s this?”

“Lexa, obviously,” the woman says, a little harsher than altogether necessary, but he’s starting to think that’s just her voice. “Who are _you_?”

“Bellamy, obviously,” he says, to be an asshole.

“The neighbor from New York?” Lexa asks, sounding surprised, but not nearly as surprised as him. When Clarke moved, he’d sort of expected her to just forget about him, or at least not really think of him as more than just a fond childhood memory. He certainly never thought she’d tell people about him.

“Clarke talks about me?” he asks, pleased.

“Of course,” Lexa says, sounding a little irritated. “It’s all very boring. Something about a closet, and building a house in a tree; though why _anyone_ would want to voluntarily spend time in a _tree_ is beyond me.”

“Hey, that treehouse was a masterpiece,” Bellamy argues, because it’s true. Jake had built it for them one summer. It’s still nestled in the front maple, though the paint’s flaked off by now, and it looks a little worse for wear. Still, he can’t help studying it every time he visits O, feeling that familiar pride and _fondness_.

“If you say so.” It’s a clear dismissal, so Bellamy lets it go. “Why do you have Clarke’s phone?”

It’s a fair question, and Bellamy sort of vaguely remembers taking the phone last night, when Clarke dropped it for the third time, and sticking it in his pocket for safe keeping. “I forgot to give it back this morning,” he says, deciding not to go into too much detail. Lexa doesn’t seem like a particularly patient person. “How do you know Clarke?”

“We dated,” Lexa says, blatant. “Have her call me back this afternoon.” Then she hangs up.

When his break’s over and he clocks back in, Bellamy walks out to find Clarke sitting at the counter, fidgeting with her hair like a nervous kid. It reminds him of when they were younger, and he tugs at her braid, fondly.

“Do you know where I left my phone?” she asks, anxious, and he tugs it out to wave at her.

“Your ex called,” he says, sliding it over to her. “Apparently you told her about me,” he teases.

Clarke huffs. “Of course I did,” she rolls her eyes, snatching her phone back. “I told everyone about you—you were my best friend.” She worries her lip a little. “You didn’t tell Raven about me,” she adds, and he feels like the biggest asshole of all time. She went around, telling people about their stupid _treehouse_ , and he refused to think about her for _eight years_. “Or Roma.”

“I mentioned you once or twice,” he says weakly. Then he makes her a strawberry milkshake, topped with a whole can of Ready Whip and so many cherries they almost don’t all fit.

“This isn’t me forgiving you,” Clarke declares, scooping one of the cherries out with her fucking _teeth_. Bellamy’s trying not to watch, but he’s only got so much self-control, and he used up most of it last night when she kept brushing her boobs against him on the walk home.

“Good to know,” he says, and goes into the back to wash dishes.

Clarke waits until his shift is over, to walk him home. “I’m returning the favor,” she grins, and it fucking _hurts_ , how much he wants her.

She was pretty, when they were kids, and she was his first crush—and now here she is, showing back up in his life out of absolutely nowhere, just as gorgeous and awesome as he remembers, and she’s _walking him home_ like something straight out of a movie. He’s seen a lot of romantic comedies, raising Octavia, and he’s pretty sure this is something that happens in them.

Clarke calls Lexa back when they reach the apartment, while he searches through the cabinets, cooking dinner. The cupboard he cleared out is filled to the brim with Cheez-Puffs, ho-ho’s and those prepackaged apple pies that taste like pure sugar. There are three different variations of Fruit Loops, which seems a little excessive. He didn’t even know they _made_ that many kinds of Fruit Loops.

Clarke wanders back into the kitchen, holding her cell. “You have the diet of a twelve-year-old,” he grumbles, and she laughs, holding out the phone.

“She wants to talk to you,” she says with a shrug, like this is a common occurrence; her girlfriend demanding to speak with complete strangers.

Bellamy takes the phone with a frown. “Hello?”

“She is not fully capable of making good decisions right now,” Lexa declares. “It would be very easy for you to take advantage.”

Bellamy bristles automatically. “I’m not,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t.” It’s _hard_ , keeping a little distance when all he wants to do is hold her—averting his gaze when all he wants to do is stare—but he’s _doing_ it, okay? And it’s _hard_ , but. He refuses to be that guy, that _asshole_ , that uses her grief against her.

“Good,” Lexa says. “Keep it that way.” There’s a pause, like she’s hesitating. “She told you about her father, but not about Wells. She’s not without friends here—but we all knew Wells, and Jake, and Abby. You didn’t, not really. That is why she chose you. But she has to talk about it, eventually. You will need to listen.”

“Okay,” Bellamy agrees, feeling uneasy. He’s sort of assumed Clarke found him because she trusted him. Because she felt safe around him, in their hometown. But instead it was because he doesn’t really know her, these days, and she could run away from herself with him.

He guesses he doesn’t really have the right to be upset about it; she did tell him, after all. That she was running from _everything_.

“If you break her heart I will find you, and give you an orchiectomy.” She hangs up, and Bellamy has to google the word _orchiectomy_ to understand the threat.

“Sorry,” Clarke offers, pulling two waffles from the freezer. “She’s kind of intense.”

She sounds affectionate about it, and Bellamy feels a pang of jealousy, which doesn’t even make sense. Lexa had said they’d dated, which means they weren’t dating anymore. Sometimes people work better as friends than they do in a relationship, Bellamy knows—he and Roma are proof. He and Raven are _kind of_ proof, even though they really only hooked up once when they were both drunk and feeling especially lonely.

“What’s the story with her, anyway?” he asks, trying for nonchalance. Clarke looks unimpressed, which means he probably missed the mark.

“We met in college and tried dating for a few months, but decided we were better as friends,” Clarke shrugs. “It was all pretty boring, to be honest. Now she’s got some weird flirty banter thing going on with one of the girls I was TA for. I’m waiting for when the sexual tension between them finally explodes.”

“Huh,” Bellamy says, pouring some pasta shells in a pan of water.

Clarke grins, leaning against the counter. “What about you? Anything interesting in the love department while I was gone?”

Bellamy barely manages to keep himself from saying _not like you_ , or something equally stupid. After all, she was _nine years old_ , and he still thought babies came from kissing. “Mine were all pretty much the same. We’d get together, date a little, figure out we worked better as friends, and then they’d meet the love of their life or something.”

Clarke laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s the plot of some terrible romance movie,” she teases, and he shrugs. It probably is; at this point, Bellamy’s pretty sure he’s _in_ a terrible romance movie. One of those annoying ones, where the couple doesn’t actually get together until the very last five minutes.

“I’m definitely a Richard Gere,” he decides, pulling out a package of frozen carrots and peas. After looking at Clarke’s groceries, he’s pretty concerned about her vegetable intake.

“You think so? I see you as more of a Chris Pine,” Clarke muses. “I’m definitely Reece Witherspoon.”

Bellamy eyes her, amused. “How much thought have you given our celebrity alter-egos?”

“No comment,” Clarke grins. “How worried are you about my eating habits?”

“Very,” he admits, shaking the vegetables at her. “Ho-ho’s,” he mutters in disgust, and Clarke throws one at him.

She’s been staying with him for two weeks, when he brings up job hunting.

“Logistically speaking,” he starts. They’re on the couch, with her feet propped up in his lap and Octavia curled up on the recliner, while they marathon HGTV renovating shows. “How long are you planning to be a professional bum?”

“Indefinitely,” Clarke says automatically. “That’s the goal, anyway.” She frowns, glancing at him with a sorry expression. “Shit, do you need money for rent? I take really long showers, I know, I’ll—”

Bellamy squeezes her leg to stop her, and smiles. “I meant it when I said you can stay however long you want,” he says. She still refuses to move into the guest bed, instead sleeping on the couch every night. He’s starting to think she just prefers couches. “I just don’t want you getting bored, or something.”

“Do you still do the art thing?” Octavia hedges around a yawn, and Clarke looks at her, amused.

“If you count sometimes drawing Captain America/Ironman slash for the internet, then yes,” she says, and Bellamy chokes while Octavia cackles.

“You should start charging for it,” she suggests, and Clarke shrugs.

“I might,” she agrees, but it sounds sort of like a cop out, so Bellamy circles a few job listings in the classifieds for her before going to bed.

She shakes the newspaper at him in the morning, grinning ruefully. “Should I read something into this? Start looking for my own place?”

Bellamy frowns, still a little groggy from sleep, and also jacking off. He’s sort of given up on _not_ doing it, but he still tries not to think about her while he does. It feels too weird; he usually pictures broad images, hands and lips and breasts, but they all sort of resemble her. “I didn’t circle any apartments,” he points out.

“I know,” Clarke shrugs, sipping her coffee. She’s wearing the blanket like a cloak around her shoulders. “I’ll go job hunting today.”

“Hey, isn’t your future wife an artist?” Wick asks that afternoon. He’s nursing a draft at the bar, because he gets them for free, now that he’s the official marketer. Bellamy’s still not really clear on what Wick _does_ , but it involves handing out pamphlets and making theme nights. He’s the reason for both Disco, and Ladies’ Nights, and the bar employees still haven’t really forgiven him.

“One, she’s not my future wife,” Bellamy sighs. He’s said it at least a dozen times by now, but it’s proving to be pointless. It doesn’t help that Octavia keeps spreading rumors about how they fell in love as kids, and Clarke refuses to dispute them. “Two, why?” He’s automatically suspicious of pretty much everyone, on principle, but he’s _extremely_ suspicious of Wick. Wick’s last “fantastic idea” was Disco Night, so clearly he is not to be trusted.

“We need a mural,” Wick says, straight-faced. “Over on that wall, the boring one. I can pay her eight dollars an hour, with free drinks and chicken wings.”

“She gets those anyway,” Raven smirks, giving Bellamy an exaggerated wink. It’s true that he doesn’t always charge Clarke, but only because she really just shows up to keep him company during the slow shifts, and then helps him clean up after closing. She earns a few beers and onion rings.

“Ask your fiancé about it,” Wick presses, and Bellamy hits him with a rag.

“Nine-twenty-five,” he argues. Eight dollars isn’t even minimum wage, and the bar can afford it. “And she’s not my fiancé.”

“It’s cute how you’re still in denial,” Raven deadpans, and Bellamy hits her with the rag, too.

“Nine-twenty-five,” Wick agrees, and they shake on it.

“I would have taken the eight dollars,” Clarke says when he tells her about it over dinner. “I’m not really in a position to barter over wages.”

“Which is why I did it for you,” he points out. “Eat your broccoli—your iron’s pretty low.”

“Remind me, which one of us went to med school?” she asks, more amused than anything. But she eats it all, anyway.

Bellamy’s been learning little things over time—like, she never actually went back to graduate from med school, and she’s addicted to spider solitaire. She only paints her nails with the TV on, and her first kiss was some guy named Finn under the bleachers at soccer practice. She played soccer for three years in high school, but hated every second of it, and finally quit after getting shin splints junior year. She didn’t go to Prom, because she was stood up at the first Homecoming—by first-kiss-Finn, the ass.

She never mentions her father, or Wells, which is fine. He’ll wait until she’s ready.

The mural takes a few weeks to finish, because Clarke’s only allowed to work on it when they aren’t really busy. It’s mostly stars and planets, with a few different spaceships to mix things up. Wick likes to coo at it like it’s a newborn. Bellamy likes it well enough—it’s badass, and Clarke is insanely talented—but mostly he likes how when she finishes for the day, she wanders over to the bar to nurse whatever drink he makes her, and chat in between waves of customers. Her hair’s always sweaty and knotted up off her neck, and she’s always _covered_ in paint that glows in the black lights when they’re on.

She’s always _happy_ , and open, and easy. It’s his favorite version of her.

It doesn’t hurt so much, being around her. He still wants her, more than ever, but it’s enough to see her smiling and drunkenly playing with his hair when they’re on his couch. He’s discovered Clarke’s an extremely tactile person, and a cuddler; and while she’s happy to hang all over Raven or Octavia when they’re within reach, he always seems to be her first choice, which he’s okay with.

He’ll take what he can get from her. It’s enough to be her best friend, the one she walks home with at the end of the night. She likes to draw caricatures on napkins at the diner, when she stops by for lunch. Sometimes they’re customers, or his employees, but usually they’re him, with a head of messy curls and skin covered in freckles. She takes pictures of them and snapchats them to all their friends, with captions like _all the boys are in his yard_.

Lexa has started to skype them both pretty regularly—and the first time, he nearly fell over, because she’s not just _Clarke’s Ex-Girlfriend Lexa_. She’s _Lexa the Celebrity_ , the heiress of a famous Fortune 500 in Vienna. Now she just likes to rub it in his face, a lot— _Bellamy, remember that time you found out who I am and nearly had a stroke?_

“One day in the very near future, you will get diabetes,” Bellamy predicts, watching as Clarke fishes one of the _seven_ cherries out of her Shirley Temple with a straw. “And I’ll be there, saying _I told you so_ , while they amputate your foot.”

Clarke laughs, loud and happy. “At least I won’t die a grumpy old man,” she teases, draining the last of her drink. “Wells was my closest friend in high school. We went to the same college, too,” she says, out of nowhere. “He died when I was nineteen.”

Bellamy nearly drops the glass he’s holding, catching it at the last moment and setting it down. Clarke watches, seeming smug rather than upset. “I’m sorry,” he says, careful, and she shrugs.

“Brain aneurism. Nothing they could do.” She picks at her nails, covered in paint from that day’s work. “It was a while ago. I almost dropped out—I had to spend a few days in the hospital, on suicide watch. My dad was the one who got me through it.”

“That sucks,” Bellamy says, reaching to pull her hands apart before she breaks the skin of her nailbeds. She weaves her fingers through his, like it’s simple. He’s been expecting her to bring Wells up for a while now, but he’d always thought it would be in some drunken break down at the apartment, or something. Instead, she just seems calm, and remarkably sober. “I’m sorry, princess.”

“He’s why I looked you up on Facebook,” she admits, grinning a little. “I was constantly talking about you, and he just said _well, why don’t you find him again and reconnect?_ ”

“I’m glad he did,” Bellamy says. “He sounds like a great guy.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You don’t even know that much about him,” she argues.

“If you were friends with him, he was a great guy,” Bellamy shrugs. “But you should tell me about him, anyway. If you want.”

Clarke watches him, as if searching for some sign that he doesn’t mean it, that he’s just being polite. She must find what she’s looking for, because she gives his hand a squeeze and straightens up on her stool. “Well, he was _stupid_ smart,” she starts. “Sort of like you. He _collected autobiographies_ …”

Neither of them get drunk that night, and they walk home in companionable silence, rather than half-stumbling. When they get home, Bellamy brushes his teeth and walks out to find Clarke’s changed into her pajamas. She’s waiting for him the hallway, wearing the blanket like a cape.

“I don’t really feel like sleeping alone,” she says, sure and easy. Bellamy blinks, debating exactly _how_ creepy it’d be to spend the night with her.

“Fine, but we’re using the bed,” he decides, leading the way. “That couch fucks up my back.”

She curls right up against him, breath hot and wet on his neck, and somehow just chaste enough to fuck with him. He’s debating whether or not to curve his arms around her, or leave them awkward at his side. “You’re my best friend, Bellamy Blake,” she whispers, and he decides _fuck it_ , and pulls her in.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” he admits, pressing a dry kiss to her hair. “Go to sleep, Clarke.”

He wakes up alone in his bed, to the sound of Clarke’s shower drifting down the hall. He stumbles into the kitchen, to find the classifieds open on the table, with apartment listings circled in blue and red. The sight makes him nauseas, and he waits for Clarke to mention it, but she never does.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when she moves out. He’d sort of known it would happen, had expected it even, but he’d still thought they’d have more time, or that maybe she’d decide he’s a great roommate, and she wouldn’t leave at all. He’ll probably just mope around in his underwear a lot and watch _Pretty Woman_ and _Sweet Home Alabama_ over and over. He’s already had to live without her once, and it sucked. He doesn’t want to do it again.

Octavia has her _It’s finally summer, bitches!_ bonfire party that night, and they show up sometime in the afternoon to help set everything up. Mostly, it involves stringing up tea lights around the back patio and making a lot of ice runs to the Seven Eleven down the street.

When they first arrive, Clarke freezes, staring up at the treehouse in the front yard. The middle is all rotted out, from when Bellamy fell through during last year’s bonfire, and a drunken game of Truth or Dare.

“You kept it,” she says, breathless, and Bellamy swings an arm around her without thinking.

“Of course I kept it,” he huffs, and she rubs her face against his shoulder like a cat before heading inside to help fill the dip bowls.

“Hypothetically speaking, how would you tell the girl you’re in love with that you’re in love with her?” he asks Miller, while they start up the grill.

Miller shrugs. “I wouldn’t. I’m gay.” Bellamy glares at him a little.

“This is why no one ever goes to you for advice,” he decides.

“I know,” Miller agrees. “It’s great. I honestly don’t get why you still try.”

Bellamy avoids Clarke for most of the night without really meaning to—he’s still a little mixed up over sleeping together, and then finding the classifieds. Plus, he’s starting to feel more drunk than he really wanted, so he doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid, or confess his undying love.

But O’s been nagging him to take all the stuff from his old bedroom to his new apartment—because she _never gets rid of anything_ —so he wanders upstairs to sort through it all. He’s sure it’ll mostly be old report cards and Cliff Bar wrappers he doesn’t care about, and notebooks filled with stupid notes from his friends, but there might be old photos or maybe his first driver’s license.

Clarke’s there, because of course she is. And she’s reading his sixth grade diary.

Bellamy shuts the door a little more forcefully than he really means to, and she jumps and turns to stare at him, surprised. She waves the book. “It was open, on the bed,” she explains, and Bellamy glares down at the floor, sure Octavia is somewhere downstairs, feeling smug and devious.

“Why’d you give her the house?” she asks, which—of all the questions he’s been expecting, that isn’t one of them. Bellamy blinks at her, a little thrown.

“Uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, awkward. He always feels nervous and awkward when he talks about his mom, or the house; but if anyone will understand, it’s Clarke. “Octavia was looking for apartments on Craigslist—we do better, not living together—and most of them were pretty shitty. The house was already paid off, and the heat doesn’t cost as much, plus the neighborhood’s nice, so. It made sense, to let her have it, while I found a different place.”

Clarke nods, like she’d expected as much, and then throws the book to the side. “You had a crush on me?”

 _Ah_ , there it is. Bellamy blushes, feeling defensive.

“You were basically my only friend, of course I had a crush on you.”

Clarke frowns. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” She sounds irritated, which he doesn’t think she has a right to be. What was he supposed to do, email her out of the blue and confess to an eight-year-long crush?

“I was _twelve_ ,” he mutters, and she scoffs.

“But later?” she presses. “When we were talking, again.”

Bellamy huffs. “You weren’t exactly Miss Communication, princess; four days in thirteen years?”

Clarke glares at him. “I tried— _Jesus_ , Bellamy—I thought you didn’t remember me!”

“You left when you were nine! How was I supposed to know you remembered _Corning_ , let alone _me_ ,” Bellamy glares back.

Clarke makes a whine of frustration and marches over, poking him hard in the chest. “I’m in love with you,” Clarke says, like a declaration of war, and then rocks back on her heels and waits.

Bellamy stares down at her dumbly. “You were looking at apartments,” he splutters, confused. Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” she explains. “And that I should probably finally get over you. Or at least try.”

She looks nervous, and embarrassed, which is absurd. She has nothing to be nervous about—he wants her, like a physical _ache_ , and he’s starting to think she does, too. Bellamy goes over the last few months in his mind, all the casual affection, and drunken nuzzling into his side, and laughing over dinner, and the way she clung to him last night.

“How long?” he demands, voice rough.

Clarke goes a little pink, but she’s smiling, which he thinks is a good sign. She still looks nervous, though. His hands are twitching, and it takes everything he has to not just reach out and grab her. “Since I was a kid,” she admits. “I thought I’d grow up to marry you.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy hisses, because _it’s the same for him_ , it’s _always_ been the same, and he curls a hand around her neck to pull her closer. His lips brush hers when he speaks. “On a scale of one to ten, how emotionally stable are you right now?” he asks, because he has to know this isn’t just about Wells and her dad and him letting her crash on his couch. He has to know this is real.

Clarke smiles, wide and breathless. “I’m always pretty wrecked around you,” she admits, and he kisses her.

He can’t really focus enough to know what she tastes like, because _he’s kissing Clarke Griffin_ , the girl he’s been in love with since he was nine years old and she was the annoying first grader that followed him around and stuck up for him to kids twice her size.

He’s kissing her, and she’s soft and warm and perfect, pressed up against him all the way to their toes, and she’s making little mewling sounds into his mouth because she _wants_ him. She wants this.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathes when they pull back, and she beams up at him. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he keeps going, because he can’t stop. He probably won’t stop for a while, maybe ever, because he’s been keeping this in for _years_ and he can finally say it out loud. “Years,” he trails lazy open-mouthed kisses down her neck and she digs her nails into his shoulders.

“Me too,” she gasps, and then bites his ear until he whines. “ _Years_ , Bellamy.”

He walks her backwards, and they trip a dozen times over stacks of books and old Halloween costumes, but she just giggles into his neck and pulls him along. He falls over her on the bed, tossing away old clothes and a half-empty beanbag to make room—but the mattress is the single he slept on as a kid, so they don’t fit very well, and his feet hang off the end.

“I don’t know if I want to fuck you in my uncomfortable childhood bed,” he muses, and Clarke laughs against his mouth.

“There’s always our closet,” she offers, reaching down to unbutton his pants.

“Here’s good,” he decides with a groan, dipping down to yank at her shirt, biting a bruise against the swell of her breast.

Clarke cants her hips up so he can slide off her shorts, and he dips a hand in between her thighs until she moans. “Bell,” she breathes, and then again and again, less coordinated each time, until she comes apart with a few strangled syllables.

“Your turn,” she says, eyes still heavy and glazed, pushing his jeans down with her little feet so he can settle down against her. “I don’t want to move out,” she blurts, and he grins down at her.

“Good,” he agrees, pushing in so she gasps. “I don’t want you to. Ever.”

Clarke grinds up against him, fast and wet and fucking dirty, pressing her mouth to each bit of skin she can find, and Bellamy pushes back just as hard. It’s not soft, or smooth, or anything like the movies. But it’s perfect, and he curls around her when it’s finished, breathing heavy and grinning so hard it hurts.

“Ever?” she asks, suddenly shy, which is kind of funny considering the things she’d just been panting in his ear.

Bellamy combs her hair, knotted and wet, away from her face and licks the sweat off her neck. “Ever,” he agrees. She kisses his wrist where it lays on her cheek.

“We have a lot of time to make up for.”


End file.
